roadkill

I beg my mother
to let me take in the stray
curled against the curb
all ribs and bone

she glances once,
tilts her head the way people do at dying things.
“Aww, poor baby,” she says,
voice sweet and far away.

a softness that sounds practiced,
a sorrow that doesn’t stop the car.

I never learned who she meant.
the dog,
licking at what’s left of something else,
or me,
still small enough to believe mercy
was a thing you could ask for out loud.

but I know this much:
when she looks back
her eyes and mine
are the same blue

Author's Note

Pardon the nonsense.